


invitations

by synecdochic



Series: the cammieverse [2]
Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Gen, Getting the Band Back Together, Imported, Jaffa, Rule 63, Tok'ra
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-26
Updated: 2008-10-26
Packaged: 2018-05-30 17:04:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6432901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/synecdochic/pseuds/synecdochic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Fourteen weeks exactly after Cammie starts at the SGC, she finally gets a chance to meet Master Teal'c of Chulak and make her case to try to win his consent to be commanded.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Or: Egypt would be ours, ten thousand years of peace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	invitations

**Author's Note:**

> (Originally [posted](https://synecdochic.dreamwidth.org/272801.html) 2008-10-26.)
> 
> Quote in the summary comes from Erin McKeown's "Softly, Moses", a song that has always screamed Teal'c to me: _softly, Moses, speak, quietly to sleep, Easter Sunday never tasted so bitter._

Fourteen weeks exactly after Cammie starts at the SGC, she finally gets a chance to meet Master Teal'c of Chulak and make her case to try to win his consent to be commanded.

And that's exactly what it is, no bones about it. She's read the reports -- all the reports, by now -- but more than that, she's listened to Daniel and Sam swapping stories of the Good Old Days. (Half of the time it's actual reminiscing. The other half, it's deliberately designed to scare her. She lets it go on, because there's truth to be found there behind the scare tactics and she knows they're only trying to get her attention.) She knows that -- on paper -- Sam Carter was General O'Neill's second in command, all right and proper. She also knows that no matter how much General O'Neill taught Sam, about command and about commanding, it was Teal'c of Chulak whom O'Neill always looked to in a pinch.

They're running SG-1 with just three, now. General Landry keeps making noises about picking a fourth; Cammie keeps putting him off by "auditioning" people. (Half of them decide that they're _really fucking creeped out_ by Daniel or, more rarely, by Sam. Cammie would rather shoot herself than deal with the other half on a permanent basis. Or, more likely, shoot _them_.) Sam's the one to mention that Master Teal'c is due back on Earth for negotiations between the Free Jaffa Nation and the Tok'ra. They all realized a while back it was best for those little discussions to happen on neutral ground, and the SGC is the closest anybody gets to neutral ground, seeing as how both sides are apparently convinced that while the SGC might have fucked them over in vague and unspecified ways at some point in the past -- Daniel's explanations are not at all helpful -- hey, at least they fucked the other side over _worse_. 

When Cammie hears Sam and Daniel talking about a get-together, the first thing she says is, things sparking in her head, "I should cook dinner." 

There's a second of pause -- just a second -- and then Sam sighs, wistfully. "You _should_ ," she says. "You should feed all of us more often."

"Been trying to get Daniel over for dinner for weeks," Cammie says. (She has _never_ , in her entire _life_ , met someone more stubbornly determined that he will _not_ allow her to feed him.) "You, I already feed _you_."

"I'm busy," Daniel says, absently. He's shuffling papers across his work-bench; Cammie knows that she and Sam are interrupting his train of thought, that he's working on _something_ inside that tremendous big brain of his. (Probably something having to do with who can be seated next to whom and how much the SGC wants to promise in order to get what they want, and probably _something_ in there, running under the surface, about how to manage General Landry so that the man doesn't make a horse's ass of himself; Daniel has been uncomplimentary about Landry's ability to conduct diplomacy.) "Rain check?"

Cammie laughs. "You ain't listening to a word I'm saying," she says. She flips a pencil at him; his hand shoots up and catches it, without him even looking (and it's not fair of her to freak his reflexes out like that, but she's learned that the only way to get his attention sometimes is to drag him out of whatever he's doing by making him see _threat_ ). Once he's caught it, he frowns at it, then drags his look up and frowns at _her_. "Dinner," Cammie says. "You. Sam. Me. Master Teal'c. I'll cook."

"Um," Daniel says. "That sounds nice. I guess?"

If she didn't know he was mentally half a galaxy away most of the time, Cammie would _swear_ the man was as simpleminded as one or two of the boys she went to high school with. But at least he's in the same _zip code_ now, so she leans her hip back against the counter and nods. "Only problem is, there's no way in hell four people can fit into that apartment of mine."

She pauses and waits for someone to offer. In her dialect, that's a prompt as unmistakeable as a flat-out statement ( _I need to borrow someone's kitchen_ ) or request ( _can I borrow someone's kitchen, please_ ), but Sam and Daniel are used to more direct requests. Which is not a problem, but she's conducting a little experiment -- on the minor issues -- to see whether or not she can train them to spot the undercurrents or if she'll have to retrain herself to be more clear. (She's suspecting the latter. Sam can spot the implied middle a good half the time, since she's spent enough time around Family, but Daniel's a lost cause; sometimes he fails to see the request even when it's stated outright.) This time, though, Sam's paying attention; she catches it.

"Hmm," Sam says. "I have room. But you hate my kitchen."

Cammie can't help but suppress the shudder. " _Electric heat_ ," she says. "How the hell do you keep from burning things?"

"I don't," Sam says, dryly. "Daniel, your kitchen has a gas stove, right?"

"Huh?" Daniel says. Then he frowns. "Um, yeah. Why?"

Sometimes Cammie just wants to pinch his cheeks. She generally resists the urge. It's not easy sometimes. "I need to borrow somebody's kitchen," she says, slowly and clearly. (But not _too_ slowly, or he'll notice that she's speaking slowly and clearly, and then he'll get stroppy. Which is an adjective that frequently applies to Daniel Jackson. She's learning him slowly, but surely; she's learning Sam-at-work as opposed to Sam-at-home a little more quickly in some ways, a little less quickly in others. Been at this job for thirteen weeks and four days, and she's hoping that by the time she hits six months in, she'll have found the knack of them both. It's a challenge.) "Can I borrow yours to cook in?"

Daniel's frown deepens. "Sure. Why, what's wrong with yours?" Before she can answer, he holds up a hand. "No, wait, sorry, I'm a million miles away. Right. I remember. Your kitchen's too small. And Sam's is ... the wrong kind?"

It's really not that he doesn't pay attention. Or that he's _feebleminded_ , no matter how good an impression he does sometimes. He doesn't pull this in the field, for instance; _there_ , she has to wrangle him -- wrangle both of them -- like they're unruly kittens tumbling after everything they notice, half the time. (And she's dreadfully afraid that the fact she's new and trying not to unbalance their gestalt means that they're _walking all over her_ , but it's not a fear she can bring to anybody.) No, it's only in the SGC that he's a space cadet. He's lucky she finds it endearing.

"Yes," Cammie says, as patiently as possible. "And if I'm going to cook for the three of you, I need room. And a stove that won't scorch half of what I'm cooking and leave the other half _raw_." She glares at Sam as though the stove is her fault. "I'll bring over my stuff to cook with. Is Monday night good for both of you?"

"Sure," Sam says. "I'll help." She smiles at Cammie. It makes Cammie happy to see it; Sam hasn't been smiling enough lately. More since Cammie managed to lure her back from Area 51 -- whatever had gone down there, and Cammie still doesn't know what went down there, might have been intellectually interesting, but it had taken some of the light out of Sam's eyes. Cammie knows it's the only reason she could lure Sam back to the SGC, so there's a part of her that's selfishly glad for Sam's mysterious misfortune, but she still wishes Sam didn't seem so unhappy.

It makes her doubly determined to make Sam not regret her choice to come back. She smiles back. "We'll make the fried chicken," she promises. "And fresh biscuits." Sam might not be able to read it as a sign of love, but it's how Cammie intends it.

Whatever mysterious mental tasks have been Daniel's distraction are apparently finished by Monday; when the Tok'ra and the Jaffa delegations arrive on Monday morning, he's clicked over from "vague and distracted" to "bright and sociable". Cammie's seen him do it once or twice before -- SG-1 has been assigned to mostly diplomatic and scientific missions so far in her tenure, in theory the ones that have the least chance of disaster (and even, for the most part, in practice). She isn't _all_ that surprised when she sees him welcoming the Tok'ra, moving through the Gateroom to speak to each individual one-to-one, smiling and nodding and making sure to have a kind word for everyone. 

Cammie holds back and watches. Not only to add to her mental map of Daniel (he's a different person in different situations; nearly everyone _is_ , in her experience, but Daniel's differences are sharper and starker than most, and she's still trying to construct her mental model), but because she feels awkward. Out of place. Everyone here, at this command -- with the exception of Landry, and Cammie doesn't miss the way Graham and Daniel step in and take over the hospitality duties so seamlessly, so Landry doesn't get a chance to put his foot in his mouth -- has far more experience with meeting strange aliens and never batting an eyelash than she can ever hope to achieve. 

Still. SG-1 is the flagship team, diplomacy and discovery and first contact and exploration all wrapped into one, and she's the commanding officer. The past three months have been full of softballs and easy pitches, all designed to ease her into life on the edge. Sam and Daniel have been wonderful the whole way, full of explanations and practical advice, always willing to step in and steer her gently away from making a horrible mistake. That doesn't mean she should let them do it forever. There's a fine line between supporting your commander and taking over for her -- topping from the bottom, as it were -- and her two have bumped up against that line more than once. Can't let it go on forever.

So she watches what Daniel does -- how he moves, how he speaks, the registers of his body language and the care with which he presents himself. The power-structure of the group is murky. Five delegates. High Counselor Per'sus is the nominal leader, but the other three keep looking to the fifth member of the group, Counselor Thoran, instead. Looks like there's some power struggle going on there. She isn't going to get in the middle of it, so she waits until Daniel's talking to both Per'sus and Thoran together before she steps forward to join him. She's careful to smile at both men equally.

"--and this is Colonel Cameron Mitchell," Daniel says, smooth as glass, as she comes close. "Colonel Mitchell, I'd like you to meet Per'sus and Thoran."

Shaking hands is an Earth custom; Cammie doesn't offer hers. Instead, she just inclines her head. "Gentlemen," she says, with her very best church-social smile. "It's a pleasure to meet you. I've been looking forward to the opportunity to spend some time getting to know the Tok'ra."

"That would make you unique among the Tau'ri, in my experience," Thoran says. Cammie had told herself she was prepared for the voice, full of echoes and distortions. She's read the reports; she knows the physiological reasons why a Tok'ra or Goa'uld symbiote sounds like it's speaking from the bottom of a well. (Direct physical manipulation of the vocal cords, bypassing the brain's speech centers. The biology is utterly fascinating, if she makes herself view it with clinical detachment.) Still, it doesn't stop the _frisson_ at the base of her spine: _danger_.

She doesn't have to let it show, though. Particularly because she has the distinct sense Thoran is playing test-the-Tau'ri. "Oh, we're all full of surprises 'round here," she says, keeping up the smile and laying on the accent. (Just like dealing with the Ladies' Auxiliary back home, full of old women who were convinced they knew best, had a complex and arcane code of manners that nobody else in the world bothered upholding anymore, and were quick to judge and slow to change their minds; the trick with _them_ was always to sound like butter wouldn't melt in your mouth no matter how outrageous your actual _words_ were, and Cammie learned it at an early age, and it's served her fabulously throughout her entire life.) "I hope you'll find it pleasant here," she continues. "If there's anythin' I can do for you, you can just let me know. Personally." 

"Colonel Mitchell is the new commander of SG-1," Daniel announces. He sounds more than a little gleeful, with the sort of glee that Cammie thinks strangers can't hear in his voice. _Something_ 's amused the hell out of him. She wishes she knew what it is. "I think you'll find that you can count on her to uphold the _finest_ traditions of the SGC."

And oh, there's _history_ there, underneath that sweet Dr. Jackson smile. Cammie realizes (intuitive leap, but it's gotta be the truth; she can't make it work out right otherwise) that Daniel must be holding some kind of a grudge. She wonders which of the two is the poor unfortunate who's gotten on Daniel's bad side. Still. Ask later.

Getting the Tok'ra delegation settled -- guest VIP quarters on 25, and sometimes Cammie wonders what sort of distorted picture of Earth life their allies have gotten, cooped up under all that rock like this -- takes an hour or two, and then it's back to the Gateroom to welcome the delegation from Dakara. The Tok'ra and the Jaffa are still on uneasy terms; everyone agreed that it would be more politic to separate the arrivals. Sam hadn't been there to greet the Tok'ra; Cammie knows she still hasn't said goodbye to her father, not in her heart of hearts, and it makes Cammie's heart ache, because personal and duty shouldn't get mixed up like that. 

But everybody seems to be excited to see Master Teal'c, and to an extent Master Bra'tac, again. And Master Teal'c seems to be happy to be back. He gives Sam a hug, and then steps back and clasps Daniel's arm in the Jaffa warrior's greeting that Cammie recognizes from the files, and ain't that an interesting piece of data, because she's done all the reading and she knows damn well that's something you have to _earn_.

"This is Colonel Cameron Mitchell," Daniel's saying, and it's entirely a different kind of introduction than the one he'd made to the Tok'ra, and she thinks this is how Daniel sounds when he wants someone to like the person he's introducing. "She's Jack's latest victim."

Cammie stands ready to protest -- sure, General O'Neill had thrown her in to sink or swim, but it's child's play compared to what's on the other side of the Gate, and if she hadn't been able to stand _this_ she wouldn't have had a chance in hell of standing _that_ \-- but Master Teal'c has turned those warm brown eyes on her, assessingly. "Colonel Mitchell," he says, voice deep and smooth. "It is an honor to finally make your acquaintance."

Master Teal'c is the one of SG-1 who'd never come to visit her in the hospital, after The Crash. She thinks, looking at him, that it was probably a question of not being able to get clearance to travel, not a lack of desire to pay his respects, because he's looking at her like she's a genuine hero, and that's not a look, she thinks, that he gives out easily. So she folds her hands together behind her back and makes her very best respectful bow, doesn't miss the way his eyebrow goes up like a rocket either, and croaks her very best approximation of pronounciation: " _Tek'ma'te_ , Master Teal'c."

Beside her, Daniel winces. Yeah, so her pronunciation ain't all that great; sue her.

Master Teal'c's eyebrow climbs up higher at her words, and he inclines his head. "Daniel Jackson and Colonel Carter have told me much of you," he says. Which is a bit of a surprise, really, because she hadn't known they'd been in touch since everyone got back together, but her kids are chock full of surprises. "It is a comfort to know that SG-1 is in such capable hands."

That's a compliment, and a nice one at that, and she has the sense that Master Teal'c doesn't dole out compliments just to hear himself talking. It startles her into a smile, one of her happy sunshine ones, and Master Teal'c's eyes glimmer in amusement straight back at her: his equivalent of a smile, she thinks, and she breathes out relief, because she's been thinking all week that she and Master Teal'c would either get along like houses on fire or he'd hate her on first sight. "I try to keep a light touch on the reins," she says, and she watches, fascinated, as Master Teal'c's eyebrow twitches just a little and his lips follow suit, telling her _and I know precisely how much of a handful they can be_ clear as day.

Sam, next to them, is oblivious to the interchange. She hooks her elbow into Master Teal'c's and tugs him out of the way. "Cammie's promised to cook for us," she tells Master Teal'c. "Believe me when I say that you do not want to miss Cammie cooking for us."

"I have never treated any of your utterances with less than full belief, Colonel Carter," Master Teal'c says, grave and dignified, and hell if Cammie can't hear that it means Master Teal'c is laughing at all of them, especially himself. "But first, I believe it would be a prudent idea to settle the delegation in their quarters. I am certain that the Gateroom will be needed shortly."

Getting everyone settled doesn't take long -- little of this, little of that, and Master Teal'c helps the rest of the Jaffa delegation get used to where they'll be staying; apparently half of them have never been here before -- and before they know it, they're up the elevators and out the doors. Master Teal'c is riding with Daniel; Cammie and Sam drive separate. She doesn't need to stop anywhere on the way; she and Sam went shopping yesterday and brought everything over to Daniel's place, and she insisted on making dinner while she was there to test-fire the oven. (Pecan-crusted chicken breasts and green beans in garlic sauce and Daniel had eaten everything she put on his plate and seconds besides; if the man would just _let_ her she'd feed him seven days a week.)

She and Sam turn into Daniel's parking lot at about the same time; Daniel beats them back to his apartment. Unsurprising, given the way he always seems to drive like the hounds of hell are chasing him. She's vaguely expecting to find that Daniel's submerged himself back into work and left Master Teal'c to amuse himself, but when she knocks and Daniel lets them in, she can see Master Teal'c is sitting on the couch with a glass of water and there's a glass of wine sitting on the table next to him, meaning Daniel was probably sitting there a minute before. "Ah, come on in," Daniel says, pushing his glasses up his nose. "I was going to see if I could start anything to help with dinner, but ..." 

He makes the little gesture that means he had no idea where to start -- fair enough, too; Cammie had taken one look at the contents of his cabinets yesterday, muttered something about how it's a wonder he hasn't died of _scurvy_ , and turned straight around to her apartment to gather up another box full of the kitchen supplies she'd thought nobody could live without and he totally lacks -- and steps back to let them in. "Come on, Daniel," Sam says, brightly, from her place behind Cammie's shoulder. "When was the last time you even _went_ in your kitchen?"

"I go in my kitchen all the time," Daniel protests, sounding hurt. 

Sam snickers. "To heat up the leftovers."

"Oh, _you're_ one to talk," Daniel says. "Didn't you burn Jello once?"

"Twice," Cammie says, kicking off her shoes in the hallway of the apartment (never got the hang of wearing shoes inside; her Momma'd pin her ears back if she didn't take her shoes off before stepping on someone else's carpet, even if it's a rental). "That I know of. Might've been more."

"There were _extenuating circumstances_ ," Sam says, exasperated. 

"Yeah, yeah, there always are," Cammie says. "Now, anyone need anythin' out of the kitchen before I kick you all out? Speak now or forever hold your peace; soon's I get in there and get to work, I'm gonna have to beat down anyone who gets in the way. An' I'll have a sharp knife, too, so you might wanna make sure you got everything now."

Sam had said she'd help, but Cammie dismisses her the minute she makes the offer again; better to let them catch up with each other. Even if Master Teal'c doesn't say yes to the proposal she's planning on making him before he leaves to go on home -- or, hopefully, doesn't leave to go on home -- it's still a good idea to let them have their time together. And there's a part of her that wants to know what they're saying, that wants to be a _part_ of the conversation, but she steps on it pretty damn hard. None of her business. They'll tell her if it's something she needs to know.

Instead, she concentrates on jointing the whole chickens she'd bought (free-range organic; they taste better) and works up the seasoning. Doesn't take but a moment, really; she's been making this recipe or watching it made since before she could walk, and the same with the biscuits. The trick is to marinade the chicken in buttermilk for an hour before you season it, and she gets it covered over and into the fridge as she peels the potatoes and sets them on to boil for mashing and then works up the biscuit dough. Should have corn on the cob with this, really, but it's out of season and she can't bring herself to buy anything other than local-grown. They'll live without it.

The occasional burst of laughter -- mostly Sam's -- drifts in from the living room, and it makes her feel warm straight through, because it's the sound of home. She's been feeding Sam so often because cooking for one is a chore while cooking for others is a delight, and she's known Sam long enough to know that Sam's figured that out -- and she'd be damn happy if Daniel would get over his stubborn pride or his antisocial tendencies or _whatever_ it is that keeps him from taking her up on the offer more often. 

Can't be that he's trying not to get attached, knowing that he's going to be leaving, because the date for the second _Daedalus_ run came and went while they were halfway across the galaxy getting their asses shot at, and Daniel'd never said a word. But all Sam's got to offer is that Daniel's never been social, not in all the years she's known him, and that doesn't add up, because dinner-over isn't _social_ , it's _food_. 

She hums as she works, listening to the sound of people and conversations coming in from Daniel's living room: Sam's bright voice, Daniel's answering mutter, Master Teal'c's low rumble. Her people. They might not think of her as their commanding officer yet -- might never, really, and that's a gamble she's willing to take -- but they're her people no matter what, and it's her job to take care of them, whether they know they're being taken care of or not. And she's all right with that. Time enough, later, for them to realize she's not going anywhere. 

Soft footsteps sound behind her while she's up to her wrists in biscuit dough, and it sounds like Sam, so she raises her voice without looking around her. "Told you I'd bite if you came in an' interrupted, Samantha Eileen," she says. "Dinner's on the table in an hour, an' until then, I expect you to be out there relaxing."

"I have merely come to enquire as to whether you required assistance," comes the voice from over her shoulder, and damn if it isn't Master Teal'c and not Sam, which makes Cammie feel like an idiot twice over. "I would not dare to suggest that I am as learned on the field of culinary battle as you are, but I have been told I am quite proficient in chopping."

Cammie makes a face at herself -- where Master Teal'c can't see, of course, although she's pretty sure the man can probably guess at her chagrin. He's got the sense of someone who can read minds like that. Then she dusts some of the biscuit dough off her hands and throws a glance over her shoulder to find Master Teal'c standing in the doorway of the kitchen, looking interested. Not so much in what she's doing, but in _her_ , standing there in Daniel's kitchen in her jeans and her tank top with flour everywhere, and she knows exactly what he's looking for, and she knows he knows she knows.

So she indicates the pot of boiling potatoes with her chin. "Could stand to get those off the heat," she says. "Don't need to drain 'em, just turn off the gas and let 'em finish cooking all by their lonesome."

Master Teal'c crosses the kitchen on cat feet and clicks off the burner, then turns back to his quiet contemplation of her. She attacks the biscuit dough with a vengeance, knowing she's being watched, not quite minding. If it takes him a while of looking at her to decide whether or not she's good enough to have SG-1, well, she doesn't begrudge him the looking. He's good company, at least. Some men, when they're standing in the same room with you and studying, make you feel like you're a butterfly pinned out on a board. Master Teal'c is just _there_ , peaceful and companionable.

He's the one to break the silence, eventually, and it has the sense of someone who isn't speaking just to hear himself talk -- she gets the sense he'd be perfectly content to stay here in peace and quiet until dinner was ready -- but someone who has a message he wishes to convey. "I had, of course, come to ascertain whether or not Samantha Carter and Daniel Jackson were wise in deciding to return to the field of battle under your command."

She can't help it; her pulse spikes, and she can feel the surge of _oh-shit_ running through her veins. But she just cocks her head and looks straight back at him, giving him her very best see-you-to-the-bone look, and there's an answering glimmer of amusement in the depths of his eyes, one that's so well-hidden she thinks most people might miss it, and that's enough answer for her. "Most folks might say that you couldn't make such a decision on less than fifty words an' watching me roll biscuits," she says, just to see what he'll say back.

What he says, dry like paper -- and she has _no idea_ how so many people in the SGC could accuse Master Teal'c of not having a sense of humor, because the man is laughing at her _and_ at himself all at once, plain as daylight -- is, "But if you were 'most folks', as you say, O'Neill would not have granted you this posting. Nor would Daniel Jackson and Samantha Carter agree to have returned."

"True enough," she says, inclining her head to acknowledge the point scored, and then they're left looking at each other again, and it's been a long damn time since she met someone she wasn't related to who could look straight through her just like this. She doesn't try to posture and puff, doesn't try to make herself little and small and harmless-looking, both the tactics and techniques she usually uses when someone's trying to take her measure. She just stares him down, calm and open, not trying to put on airs but not trying to stare a challenge either. Taking his measure just like he's taking hers, and she likes what she sees, and she hopes he likes what he sees too.

It's tempting -- very tempting -- to ask him what he's concluded, see what he'll say in return, but she doesn't. "Set the oven on three-fifty, please and thank you," she says, starting in on cutting the biscuit dough into rounds. "An' then you go straight ahead an' ask me anything you think you might want to know."

Looking at him, looking at him looking at her, she's finally starting to understand how her high school boyfriends must've felt when she brought them home to meet Momma and Daddy, all-too-aware they were being tested and tried against a standard they'd never had explained to them. But there's a warmth, too, and it's one that makes her feel like sunshine and puppies and the sweet sense of home and hearth. And there's a ruthlessness hidden there, underneath all of the gentle -- and she knows the man she's sharing a kitchen with was a commander of armies larger than any army she could ever hope to serve in, years before she was even a glimmer in her daddy's eye, and she thinks that he goes to great lengths to avoid ever letting anyone else around here remember that -- but it's not directed at her. Just the fierceness of a man willing to defend his loved ones, and she can sympathize with that indeed, and she hopes he can see the same willingness in her eyes.

Master Teal'c sets the oven and comes over to her side, carefully and courteously placing himself so she doesn't feel crowded, but close enough that he can see her clear. "I had intended to question you, yes," he says, thoughtfully. "And yet, it will not be necessary, will it?"

Cammie cocks her head and looks straight back at him. Must mean he _can_ see her as clearly as she can see him, or at least he thinks he can, and must mean he does like what he sees. "Seems to me that you'n I are coming from the same place," she says, just as thoughtful. "Same neighborhood, at least. If I don't miss my guess, an' I don't often." 

He nods, accepting her words at face value, and something in the depths of his eyes and his face makes her add, "I'd die for 'em, you know. Or do just about anythin' I could think of to make sure that none of us had to."

It's the kind of thing that should sound silly, spoken out loud like that, in the midst of all the modern conveniences of Daniel's kitchen, her hands still sticky with dough. But she means it, every word, and maybe her sincerity is enough to color her delivery, and maybe it's just that Master Teal'c is used to hearing lines that sound like they should be straight out of some melodramatic soap and taking them seriously. "Let us all hope," he says, with utter sincerity, "that it will not become necessary."

Something in his delivery, in his look, makes the edges of her spine relax and un-knot themselves, because it's the sound of _acceptance_. She's not stupid enough to miss the fact that all of this has been a test, one just as important as any test she's been set since she arrived or even before it, and she's smart enough and quick enough to realize that she's passed it. A moment of wordless understanding, between them, swift and sure: kindred spirits, of a very real sort, two people who are used to being protector and nurturer to a whole host of problem children. 

It makes her want to rinse her hands clean and then catch him up in a hug, let those tree-trunk arms circle her shoulders and fold her under that umbrella of care, and she thinks, swift with the sense of _knowing_ , that anyone who saw it would think her crazy, but Master Teal'c would just hold her close and let her hang on for as long as she wanted or needed. It makes her smile, another one of her happy sunbeams, and the corners of his lips quirk up a little, and she thinks that's probably his equivalent of a full-on beam himself. 

The moment's broken by Sam swinging around the edge of the doorframe, one hand planted on the doorjamb to hold her as she pivots, sticking her head in and utterly missing the undercurrents playing out between them. "Teal'c, come settle this argument for me," she demands, bright with the most unfettered laughter Cammie's seen her produce since she returned from Area 51 (and glad she is to hear it, too). "He's hit the 'waving his hands around and croaking at me in Goa'uld' stage, and he refuses to admit that I'm right and he's wrong --"

Master Teal'c's lips quirk again, and up go the eyebrows, and he transfers his gaze from Cammie's face over to Sam's, but not before she can read him plain as if he'd shouted it from the rooftops: _and they do, indeed, take quite some wrangling._ It makes her want to laugh, so she ducks her head and stifles the urge, because if Sam saw her laughing, Sam would want to know why, and she's not quite ready to explain. "Your faith that I will uphold your side of the argument is touching," he says, and it's the kind of mockery that only comes out around people you love, gentle and sweet and so subtle Cammie wonders if Sam can even hear it. "Perhaps you are both incorrect."

Sam laughs again. "Come _on_. When was the last time Daniel was right about _anything_ involving technology? You know and I know that he thinks an electron is something the size and shape of a small pea --"

"I _heard_ that," comes the injured-sounding yelp from the other room, and this time Cammie _does_ laugh, because it's not the aggrieved sound of Daniel in a snit, just the sound of someone actually _content_ for the first time in a long time. It makes her heart go thump- _thud_ to hear it, the sound of Daniel _happy_ , and even if it wasn't her who caused it -- even if it comes from nothing more than being around his people again, even if she had nothing to do with putting that contentment in his voice and wishes like blazes that she _could_ have -- it still soothes her to know that he could get there. 

And it must show in her face, too, dammit, because Master Teal'c has turned back to her -- intending, maybe, to make his apologies and excuse himself to go referee -- and she can see the fractional widening of his eyes, the eyebrow going _up_ , because of course: they've been having an entire heart-to-heart with nothing more than the smallest and subtlest cues, and it's a channel that can carry terabytes of information if you just know how to look. They're both calibrated to do the looking right now, sensitized to reading each other, and she knows, she _knows_ , that he's seeing straight down into her heart and finding all of those feelings she _still_ doesn't know what she should be doing with. 

She fumbles to lock down her face before she can give anything _else_ away (dammit), but it's too late, and she knows it is, because Master Teal'c's eyebrows are telling her, plain as day, that they _will_ have a conversation about this sooner or later. Probably sooner. Then he's inclining his head in an excuse-me and heading back out to the living room, and she can hear the sound of voices rising and falling again, and she stands in the middle of the kitchen and closes her eyes and counts ten and wants to _kick_ something. 

It'd been going so damn _well_. She doesn't know what Master Teal'c might think about romance among the ranks, doesn't know what Jaffa tradition says about letting your heart fall where your orders might make the difference between life and death, but somehow she suspects that might take a backseat to Master Teal'c's protectiveness of a brother and comrade-in-arms. She's read the reports. She's dragged the story, as much of it as she could, out of Sam. She knows the story of Daniel's wife, the operatic tragedy of it all and the role that Master Teal'c played in it, and she will _eat_ her fucking mixing bowl if Master Teal'c hasn't decided that it's his responsibility to make sure Daniel doesn't ever get hurt like that again.

The only thing she can do is hope that Master Teal'c _also_ saw that she'd rather chew her own arm off than ever hurt Daniel, even if that means Daniel might not ever _know_ what she's feeling. Because for all of her determination (and it's only getting stronger) that she wants to heal some of that heart-hurt Daniel carries around on his sleeve as plain as sunlight, she's also more than aware that it might not be possible, and even if it is possible, it might not be her to do the healing. 

Nothing to be done for it now. She's got a dinner to make, and the potatoes won't mash themselves and the chicken isn't going to walk into the frying oil all on its lonesome, and there'll be time enough later on to sit down and figure out whether or not she's just screwed the pooch entirely. 

Daniel's the next one to blatantly disregard her instructions to stay the fuck out of her kitchen. (All right, it's _his_ apartment, which means technically it's his kitchen, but she's the one who's done more cooking in it in the past hour than he's probably done in it in the past four years, so she's justified in the possessive pronoun at the moment.) He sticks his head in and holds up his empty wineglass. "Don't shoot," he says, and it's cheerful and merry and she catches herself grinning back at him like an idiot. "I just came for a refill."

"Come on in, then," she says, helpless to do anything but smile at him. "As long as you pour me a glass, too, while you're at it."

"Oh, God," Daniel says, and he looks suddenly distressed. "I really _didn't_ ask you if you wanted anything to drink, did I? I am so sorry. God, here you are slaving away in the kitchen, and I was rude enough to not even --"

" _Daniel_ ," she says, thick with exasperation, and he shuts straight up. "Baby, I have spent more time in your kitchen in the past hour than you have in the past _month_ , I'm willin' to wager, an' I haven't exactly been shy in opening doors and cabinets as I've needed. I'd'a gotten my own drink before now, don't you worry. My hands are just dirty, is all."

He opens his mouth to say something, closes it again; she watches as his eyebrows draw together, his own, much broader version of Master Teal'c's tiny facial movements, and it's only much after the fact that she realizes she's slipped into calling him 'baby', no matter how much she's promised herself she wouldn't. He won't have any idea what it means, she knows -- she calls Sam 'babe' and 'honey' right and left, but her call-names are so specific and always have been, and she's been so careful to keep to his first name only and 'Dr. Jackson' in front of others to boot. But there's something about a kitchen, about the relaxation of time away from work, that makes her slide sideways into all her home-words.

Best she can hope is that he hasn't noticed, which she thinks is about even odds. "Still," he says, stubborn like a mule. "Are you _sure_ you don't need any help? I hadn't really stopped to think, but it really isn't fair for you to be cooped up in the kitchen while we're in the other room relaxing, not after the week we all had last week --"

"Quiet week," Cammie says, firmly. "Any week nobody shoots at me is a good week. An' I keep telling you, Daniel, cooking isn't a chore, an' I _like_ being 'cooped up' in the kitchen. Which you'd know, if you let me cook for you more often --"

He frowns. "It's not your job to -- to _cater_ to me," he says, and that's the first faint hints of him getting stroppy again, and it makes some small bit of realization explode behind her eyes. _That's_ why he's been so reluctant to let her take care of him. Got nothing to do with him wanting to hold distance from her, or them, or the idea of the new SG-1. No, he's just trying to be a _gentleman_. (She'll wager good money he can deliver Sam's feminism lecture note-perfect by now after all these years. Should've guessed it sooner.)

" _Daniel_ ," she says, endless font of exasperation. "I ain't just doin' this for _you_ , I'm doin' it because I like cooking. And I learned to cook by feeding about twenty people at a time, so cooking for one is a chore." She gestures at the chicken pieces she's breading. "Things don't come sized for one in the store, not if you want quality. Now hush up, pour me a glass of wine, and go and entertain your guest."

The little line between his eyebrows doesn't go away, and she swears she wants to kiss it. Dammit, that's the problem with dealing with him outside of work; she hasn't had enough time around him when they _aren't_ on the clock, to get used to the thought of being his friend as well as his coworker and figure out how to push aside all those emotions she doesn't know what to do with. She should probably start insisting on regular Team Nights. Desensitization therapy, or something like that.

"Teal'c's not a guest," Daniel says, stubborn and intractable. "He won't mind. And I should be helping you, it's my kitchen --"

"Not at the moment, it ain't," she says. "I said get." He looks like he's about to object again, and she gives him her very best Colonel face. "Need me to make it an order, Dr. Jackson? Or are you going to go quietly?"

She keeps her voice light and teasing, though, and after a second his face eases out and he gives her a little-boy smile. "All right, all right. I'll stop arguing. But you're going to let me do the dishes."

"Now _that_ ," she agrees, "I'll say yes to. As long as you don't try to send my cast-iron pan through the dishwasher." She shudders at the thought. He doesn't understand, she can tell, but time enough for that later; she can deliver the lectures on the Evils of Dishwashers and their effects on a well-seasoned cast-iron pan in her sleep. "Dinner in about half an hour," she adds, as an afterthought. "If y'all are getting hungry out there, I can send out some snacks."

"Sam told me not to eat lunch," he says, dryly. "She mentioned something about 'food coma'." 

Cammie laughs. "Aw, shucks," she says. "This isn't even more'n a snack, really. Didn't have time for more." She sees her opportunity, seizes it with both hands. "I'll come over Saturday, maybe, do up a real dinner for you and Sam. You ain't seen nothin' yet."

Daniel looks like he's about to object, but maybe it's the wine and maybe it's the stubborn expression on her face, because he just gives her one of his Looks. "We'll see," he says, and -- after refilling his own glass of white, and pouring one for her and leaving it at her elbow -- departs.

Cammie can fry up a chicken in her _sleep_ , and the mashed potatoes and biscuits don't take long either, and it isn't long until she's hollering for hands to come help her carry plates on out to the dining room table. Sam's the first one in, and she heads straight for the basket heaped with steaming biscuits and breaks off a piece, juggling it in her hand. "Don't think I didn't see you put that in your mouth, Samantha Eileen," Cammie says.

Sam grins, bright and unrepentant. "Food is for eating," she says right back, note-perfect imitation of Cammie in full lecture, and Cammie has to laugh. Her people. They might not know it yet, but they are.

She's careful, when sitting down, to make sure that she puts herself kitten-corner to Daniel -- not next to him, not across from him -- and across from Master Teal'c, in case he isn't done studying her yet. Sam's passing out empty plates, and Daniel's eyeballing the heaping tray of fried chicken (which smells heavenly, if she does say so herself) with something akin to suspicion, like he's trying to figure out how it came out of _his_ kitchen without the intervention of some delivery service, and Cammie clears her throat and reaches for her wineglass before anyone can reach for something to eat.

She'd thought about this while she was cooking, what she could say, how she could phrase it, but simple is always best. "To SG-1," she says, calm and steady, and she knows military etiquette for a dining-in down to the bone, and it's not exactly proper to lead off the toasting with something so far down the line. But this isn't a formal dining-in, and SG-1's never been a formal group. Something simple like that is enough.

Out of the corner of her eye, she catches Daniel looking startled for a second, but he's the first one to reach for his glass. "SG-1," he says, and Sam and Master Teal'c echo it (Sam's drinking beer, straight from the bottle; Master Teal'c is drinking Kool-Aid, of all things, and she'd wondered at it when she saw Daniel had a pitcher of it made up in the fridge, but apparently Master Teal'c likes it well enough), and then it's time to dig in.

Best compliment a cook can get is for all conversation to stop dead except for little happy noises as soon as her guests get their first taste, but Cammie's not above sitting on tenterhooks for a few minutes until someone talks. It's Sam who does, her lips shiny with oil and her face rapturous. "You have _no idea_ how much I missed your fried chicken," she says, blissfully. "Seriously. We'd be stuck on P3X-11K or wherever --"

"Oh, _God_ ," Daniel says, heartfelt. "The banquet with the purple stalks. I mean, I can eat anything, but Jack --"

"--and I'd be sitting there staring at the plate and thinking, this is nothing like Cammie's fried chicken --"

"It is clear to me," Master Teal'c says, making neat work of a drumstick, "that you are indeed an excellent chef, Colonel Mitchell."

Cammie takes a deep breath, starting to relax (it's silly, is what it is, for her to worry about making a good _impression_ , with food at least, but she can't help it). She summons up a smile for Master Teal'c. "You call me Cammie, Master Teal'c," she says, firm and solid, and she can see Master Teal'c's eyebrow go up again, but he inclines his head.

"And you shall call me Teal'c," he says, and Cammie lets out her breath and reaches for a piece of chicken herself, because it's going to be okay.

It's easy as pie to lure them into telling all kinds of stories -- all it really takes is turning to Daniel and saying, bright as sunshine, "So, what was that about General O'Neill and the purple stalks?" and Daniel's off to the races, nigh tripping over himself in a rush to tell tales out of school, and from there it isn't long until Sam's snorting into her beer and contributing a few of her own. And by the time the chicken and biscuits are nearly gone and the mashed potatoes are entirely demolished -- which surprises her, because she'd intended to make up enough for everyone to have leftovers for lunch tomorrow, but Teal'c eats enough for _both_ the twins at the height of their hollow-leg stage and an extra piece or two besides -- Sam is cheerfully regaling the table with some of the stories of her in their Academy days, and well, the only _possible_ defense against that is to pull out the stories about Sam in Kuwait and right after, and by the time Sam's done with throwing biscuit crumbs at her, they're all laughing and happy and relaxed and it's a little bit like being back home.

Doesn't take long to clean up after, not with four pairs of hands (and despite what she'd told Daniel, she handles most of the dishes; she lets him load the dishwasher so he doesn't get cranky at her, but she handles the rest herself) and after they're done packing up, Cammie takes one last look around the kitchen and sighs. "I would _kill_ for a kitchen like this in my place," she says, mournfully. "And you use it to _boil water_."

"And make coffee," Sam says, helpfully. "Don't forget the coffee."

Daniel's actually had enough to drink that he's almost _relaxed_ for once (and Cammie thinks that the food and the company hasn't hurt, either); he snaps a dishtowel in Sam's direction, though not actually _at_ her. "It's just easier to eat out," he says, and Cammie masterfully suppresses the shudder (all right, all right, he may have found every single restaurant worth eating at in the entire Colorado Springs metro area, but that doesn't change the fact that restaurant food is almost never as good as you can make at home, dammit). 

She's just pondering making some kind of smartass remark when Daniel looks over at her and _something_ in his face sharpens, some bit of the perpetual distraction fades away, and she gets that uncanny sense that he's actually _seeing_ her, as _her_ and not as just another person in his orbit wanting something from her. It's _spooky_ , is what it is, one second of laser-sharp focus that's somehow utterly different than what Teal'c or Momma can summon on command. He's not looking through her, or down to bone, or trying to tease out the secrets of what she's got hidden on her face. It's just that odd sudden _presence_ he gets sometimes when he's decided to actually step into the same world as the rest of them live in, and she's seen it once or twice on missions, but never on downtime or at home.

Then it's gone again, and he's squinting at her, a little uncertain, a little hesitant. "You can come over and borrow the kitchen again, if you'd like," he says, then hastens to add, "Not that I'm saying you should have to cook for me, not if you don't want to, I just mean -- if you want to, I don't mind lending you the kitchen, if you want to cook somewhere other than in your apartment, I mean --"

She forestalls his incipient meltdown by beaming at him. "That's very kind of you, baby, and don't think I won't say yes," she says, and nearly bites her own lip at hearing herself slip again, but she's been drinking just enough to get her loose and relaxed, too. "Been meaning to do up some cookies for a couple-few people who need 'em."

"Oh, God, _Cammie_ ," Sam groans -- Sam knows full well she means cookies as thank-you for all of the people who've made her life easier in the past few months, and Sam doesn't precisely object to _that_ , but Sam also knows that cookie-baking is going to be an integral part of her strategy for getting Landry wrapped around her little finger, and Sam thinks that's demeaning as hell -- but they've been having _that_ argument for a decade and a half and neither one of them's won it, so it's not going to be won tonight. 

"Hush, you," Cammie says, turning to Sam. "Or I won't make you any of the lemon bars."

Sam's face is a study in contrasts, feminist protest warring with _oooh, cookies_ , and Cammie masterfully suppresses the giggle. Then she sighs. "Getting late," she says, eyeballing the kitchen, which is about as pristine as she can make it. "Suppose I should get on home."

"Colonel Mitchell, if I might impose upon you for a ride back to the Mountain," Teal'c says, and it's not a request, and she'd known it was coming. Sam would make much more sense to drive Teal'c on back, since her house is down 115 while Cammie's crackerbox is all the way out off 24 in the other direction out by Peterson, but Sam doesn't offer herself up as chauffeur in Cammie's stead and Cammie would've said no even if she had.

Teal'c is quiet on their way on out of Daniel's place -- although he does quite firmly insist on carrying the box of kitchenware out to Miss Mamzelle's backseat, and Cammie doesn't say him no -- and it isn't until they're pulling out of the parking lot that she tosses him a glance out of the corner of her eye. What she sees there makes her relax, makes her climb on down off the tenterhooks she's worked herself back up on, because he's looking at her thoughtfully, but without a lick of censure.

"Daniel Jackson is unaware of your feelings for him," he says, and it's interesting, really, how he's got a way of making a question sound like an oracular pronouncement, but then again, it's not really a question, is it? If anyone would know what Daniel knows, it'd be Master Teal'c, who can probably read your whole life's story from your way of saying good-morning. 

Cammie fights to keep her voice even, her eyes on the road. "Will be for a while, I got anything to say about it," she says. "Last thing I want is to see him get hurt."

It prompts another round of silence -- Teal'c is the kind of man who can fill entire conversations with the shape and sound of his quiet, and this one is thoughtful and contemplative. The sound of a man who knows what it's like to have to make decisions quickly, under pressure and under the gun, and has promised himself that for the rest of his life, he'll never act in haste again if there's nobody firing at him. It's harder to have this conversation while driving, because she can't _look_ at him, can't read his expressions and his cues, but he isn't giving her any sign that she should worry about what he's going to say. He's just thinking. 

After a few minutes (and his calm presence in the passenger seat _does_ help a damn lot when she gets stuck behind a Jeep going five miles an hour under the speed limit, too), he stirs a little and says, "It is my opinion that O'Neill has chosen a worthy successor." 

Cammie purses her lips and blows out air, trying not to give away the fact that she's been nerves straight through since the Jaffa delegation stepped through the Gate. "Like to hope so," she says, and honesty -- though there isn't really a choice, not when talking to to this man -- compels her to add, "Not completely convinced of it yet myself, though. Big shoes to step into."

"They always are," Teal'c says. "And yet, willingness to learn, to attend to the world around you, and to place the needs of others before your own desires will serve you well." She tosses him another sidelong glance, quick and startled, and he's studying her face in the streetlights and giving her what even a normal person would probably term a smile. "I believe the honor of SG-1 is safe in your hands."

"Your mouth to God's ears," she says, under her breath, and the rest of the drive is a companionable silence.

She pulls up to the security gate when she gets up to the Mountain, instead of parking in her spot in the lot, and waves aside the guards with a flash of her ID when they come up to investigate. "I'm glad you could come to dinner with us tonight," she says, putting the car in park and turning to face Teal'c. He's gone back to thoughtful, and his face is more shuttered than she's seen it so far, but it doesn't matter; she feels _easy_ with him, relaxed. "If you get stuck here long enough, you should come back out this weekend. I'm gonna bully Daniel into letting me cook for him and Sam again."

Teal'c is watching her, his eyes warm on her face, and she can't read a damn lick of what he's thinking. "I thank you for the invitation," he says, and it sounds like a good-night, but he doesn't move to open the door and step out of the car.

She can't read him worth a damn at the moment, but she's never had to rely only on face and voice for her cues, not in her whole life, and she doesn't need to start now. There's something bothering him. She shifts herself so she's facing him and reaches out a hand, before she can second-guess herself, and rests it on his wrist; his skin is warm. "You okay?" she asks. "I know we just met, but -- I listen well. And sometimes it helps to talk to someone who isn't involved with whatever it is."

"Indeed," Teal'c says, his eyes distant, and then he seems to shake himself and come back to here-and-now. "My apologies. I do not mean to be rude. I am simply ..."

He trails off, and Cammie squints at him, and it all comes clear in a flash of insight. "You're _homesick_ ," she blurts out, quick and full of compassion. "You don't want to go back down there, because it means that tonight's over and you're going to have to go back to politics and arguing and dealing with things you'd really rather not, and all you want is to be able to be back with Sam and Daniel where you feel like you really belong." 

A little muscle moves in his jaw, and that's what tells her that she's right, and oh, God, her heart breaks for him. "I must go where I am needed," Teal'c says, quiet and full of sorrow.

Something tells her it's all right to make the comparison, that he'll understand and won't think to protest. "Moses never got to see the Promised Land," she says, and his eyes widen just a little, so subtly that if she weren't looking, she wouldn't have noticed. "When I was younger I always thought that wasn't fair. Older I get, the more I think it might have been a mercy. The not fair part is watching all the things you suffered and died and bled for being turned into something you never wanted it to be." 

He's looking at her, and his eyes are dark with sorrow, and she knows, _knows_ , that she's right. That he's been watching his people, the people he freed from slavery, bicker and squabble and bitch and build themselves something that he thinks is wrong straight on down. Neither fish nor fowl nor good red herring, he is, by now, and she'd put money on the proposition that he's made enemy after enemy who use his time among the Tau'ri as a weapon to put down everything he proposes, and she's got no doubt that it's tearing him to shreds inside.

"People _suck_ sometimes," she says, and he looks at her and he actually _laughs_. Not a big guffaw, just a tiny little chuff of air, but it's laughter nonetheless. 

"And yet there is hope that they might see reason," Teal'c says, and he's smiling now, just a little, around the edges. "I will have patience. If there is nothing else I have learned, it is how to bide my time."

Cammie shakes her head. It sparks a question in his eyes, and a little bit of something that might be annoyance, that she'd dare to dictate his actions to him, but she's never been able to stop herself once she's had one of those inspiration-flashes and now is no different. "Not if it's gotten this bad," she says, and of course it has to be bad, because if it weren't bad, well, he wouldn't have been looking at her like his dog just died a few minutes ago. "You'll break yourself against that shore, and the other side will use that as evidence of your weakness, and you'll lose every inch you've gained and then some."

"What else am I to do?" he snaps, and _oh_ , yeah, there's a temper there, fierce and faceted underneath the lake of calm he presents to the outside world, and she wonders how much it costs him to keep it penned and fenced.

So she takes a deep breath. "Come back to us," she says, and it's the proposal she's been wanting to make to him from the very beginning, and it's not for any of the reasons she'd wanted it in the first place. And she knows, in one quick rush, that if she'd made that offer for those reasons, he would have turned her down so firmly she'd still be reeling a month and a half from now. Her words tumble over each other in her haste to get them out, to make her reasoning plain: "If I'm guessing right, and I'm willing to bet I am, you're getting shit for having spent too much time with the Tau'ri, and your people are using that against you. So use it _for_ you instead. You come back here, you'll be on the scene, you'll be right there to help convince Landry and the Pentagon that the Jaffa Nation are our allies and need assistance. Oh, if you're not here, they'll remember eventually, but if you _are_ here, you'll be right up in their faces, day in, day out, making them think. Forcing them to _remember_. And if your people can see all of the positive things that can bring them, they'll stop looking at you like you're the enemy, and start thinking of all the things you've done for them, and the more you show them concrete proof, the more they'll actually start to _listen_." 

Her fingers tense on his wrist, willing for him to hear her, willing for him to _listen_. He's looking at her like he wants to believe, his eyes a thousand light-years away, contemplating his people and his struggles. She wants to hold her breath. It feels like they're poised on the edge of some great canyon, yawning out beneath their feet, surging up beneath them.

Then he turns his head to stare out the passenger's-side window, and the spell is broken. "You may be right," he says, low and savage, but it's no victory to hear him make the concession; Cammie doesn't _want_ to be right, not if it means that Teal'c is this miserable, but she knows she is. And he knows it too. "I will ... think upon your words." He glances back at her, one quick flash, and there's no gratitude there, just weariness. "And I thank you for your counsel."

The words sound like they're torn out of him, bitter and full of regret, and she winces a little, because they're no mercy. "I'm sorry," she says, and she isn't sure exactly what she's apologizing for. "I wish you didn't have to go through this."

Teal'c sighs, soft and shifting, and for a minute she can see every one of the years he's lived, written clearly across his face. "O'Neill once changed the destiny of an entire race with a single invitation," he says, and Cammie's breath catches in her throat, because she knows exactly what he's talking about. "Let us hope I have the wisdom to make the correct answer a second time."

Then he's unfolding himself from the statue-like position he's assumed, easing his wrist out from under her grip as gently as possible. She's left feeling like a bus just ran over her, but he just nods to her, curiously formal, a dip of the head that somehow feels like a seated bow. "I bid you good evening, Colonel Mitchell," he says. "I will see you in the morning. You have given me much to consider."

"Sleep well," Cammie says, as gently as she can, because she knows that he isn't going to. She watches him as he nods to the gatehouse guards -- they know him, she thinks, but he shows ID anyway, and that makes her wonder a little, that he would have held on to his Cheyenne Mountain ID despite not intending to come back -- and walks down the path and out of her sight.


End file.
